at a short distance from the other children, a little boy, who was
also anxious to sell his curious wares. He had an earnest,
expressive countenance, and held the box containing his carved toys
tightly with both hands, as if unwilling to part with it. His
earnest look, and being also a very little boy, made him noticed by
the strangers; so that he often sold the most, without knowing why. An
hour's walk farther up the ascent lived his grandfather, who cut and
carved the pretty little toy-houses; and in the old man's room stood a
large press, full of all sorts of carved things- nut-crackers,
knives and forks, boxes with beautifully carved foliage, leaping
chamois. It contained everything that could delight the eyes of a
child. But the boy, who was named Rudy, looked with still greater
pleasure and longing at some old fire-arms which hung upon the
rafters, under the ceiling of the room. His grandfather promised him
that he should have them some day, but that he must first grow big and
strong, and learn how to use them. Small as he was, the goats were
placed in his care, and a good goat-keeper should also be a good
climber, and such Rudy was; he sometimes, indeed, climbed higher
than the goats, for he was fond of seeking for birds'-nests at the top
of high trees; he was bold and daring, but was seldom seen to smile,
excepting when he stood by the roaring cataract, or heard the
descending roll of the avalanche. He never played with the other
children, and was not seen with them, unless his grandfather sent
him down to sell his curious workmanship. Rudy did not much like
trade; he loved to climb the mountains, or to sit by his grandfather
and listen to his tales of olden times, or of the people in Meyringen,
the place of his birth.
"In the early ages of the world," said the old man, "these
people could not be found in Switzerland. They are a colony from the
north, where their ancestors still dwell, and are called Swedes."
This was something for Rudy to know, but he learnt more from other
sources, particularly from the domestic animals who belonged to the
house. One was a large dog, called Ajola, which had belonged to his
father; and the other was a tom-cat. This cat stood very high in
Rudy's favor, for he had taught him to climb.
"Come out on the roof with me," said the cat; and Rudy quite
understood him, for the language of fowls, ducks, cats, and dogs, is
as easily understood by a young child as his own native tongue. But it
must be at the age when grandfather's stick becomes a neighing
horse, with head, legs, and tail. Some children retain these ideas
later than others, and they are considered backwards and childish
for their age. People say so; but is it so?
"Come out on the roof with me, little Rudy," was the first thing
he heard the cat say, and Rudy understood him. "What people say
about falling down is all nonsense," continued the cat; "you will
not fall, unless you are afraid. Come, now, set one foot here and
another there, and feel your way with your fore-feet. Keep your eyes
wide open, and move softly, and if you come to a hole jump over it,
and cling fast as I do." And this was just what Rudy did. He was often
on the sloping roof with the cat, or on the tops of high trees. But,
more frequently, higher still on the ridges of the rocks where puss
never came.
"Higher, higher!" cried the trees and the bushes, "see to what
height we have grown, and how fast we hold, even to the narrow edges
of the rocks."
Rudy often reached the top of the mountain before the sunrise, and
there inhaled his morning draught of the fresh, invigorating
mountain air,- God's own gift, which men call the sweet fragrance of
plant and herb on the mountain-side, and the mint and wild thyme in
the valleys. The overhanging clouds absorb all heaviness from the air,
and the winds convey them away over the pine-tree summits. The
spirit of fragrance, light and fresh, remained behind, and this was
Rudy's morning draught. The sunbeams- those blessing-bringing
daughters of the sun- kissed his cheeks. Vertigo might be lurking on
the watch, but he dared not approach him. The swallows, who had not
less than seven nests in his grandfather's house, flew up to him and
his goats, singing, "We and you, you and we." They brought him
greetings from his grandfather's house, even from two hens, the only
birds of the household; but Rudy was not intimate with them.
Although so young and such a little fellow, Rudy had travelled a
great deal. He was born in the canton of Valais, and brought to his
grandfather over the mountains. He had walked to Staubbach- a little
town that seems to flutter in the air like a silver veil- the
glittering, snow-clad mountain Jungfrau. He had also been to the great
glaciers; but this is connected with a sad story, for here his
mother met her death, and his grandfather used to say that all
Rudy's childish merriment was lost from that time. His mother had
written in a letter, that before he was a year old he had laughed more
than he cried; but after his fall into the snow-covered crevasse,
his disposition had completely changed. The grandfather seldom spoke
of this, but the fact was generally known. Rudy's father had been a
postilion, and the large dog which now lived in his grandfather's
cottage had always followed him on his journeys over the Simplon to
the lake of Geneva. Rudy's relations, on his father's side, lived in
the canton of Valais, in the valley of the Rhone. His uncle was a
chamois hunter, and a well-known guide. Rudy was only a year old
when his father died, and his mother was anxious to return with her
child to her own relations, who lived in the Bernese Oberland. Her
father dwelt at a few hours' distance from Grindelwald; he was a
carver in wood, and gained so much by it that he had plenty to live
upon. She set out homewards in the month of June, carrying her
infant in her arms, and, accompanied by two chamois hunters, crossed
the Gemmi on her way to Grindelwald. They had already left more than
half the journey behind them. They had crossed high ridges, and
traversed snow-fields; they could even see her native valley, with its
familiar wooden cottages. They had only one more glacier to climb.
Some newly fallen snow concealed a cleft which, though it did not
extend to the foaming waters in the depths beneath, was still much
deeper than the height of a man. The young woman, with the child in
her arms, slipped upon it, sank in, and disappeared. Not a shriek, not
a groan was heard; nothing but the whining of a little child. More
than an hour elapsed before her two companions could obtain from the
nearest house ropes and poles to assist in raising them; and it was
with much exertion that they at last succeeded in raising from the
crevasse what appeared to be two dead bodies. Every means was used
to restore them to life. With the child they were successful, but
not with the mother; so the old grandfather received his daughter's
little son into his house an orphan,- a little boy who laughed more
than he cried; but it seemed as if laughter had left him in the cold
ice-world into which he had fallen, where, as the Swiss peasants
say, the souls of the lost are confined till the judgment-day.
The glaciers appear as if a rushing stream had been frozen in
its course, and pressed into blocks of green crystal, which,
balanced one upon another, form a wondrous palace of crystal for the
Ice Maiden- the queen of the glaciers. It is she whose mighty power
can crush the traveller to death, and arrest the flowing river in
its course. She is also a child of the air, and with the swiftness
of the chamois she can reach the snow-covered mountain tops, where the
boldest mountaineer has to cut footsteps in the ice to ascend. She
will sail on a frail pine-twig over the raging torrents beneath, and
spring lightly from one iceberg to another, with her long,
snow-white hair flowing around her, and her dark-green robe glittering
like the waters of the deep Swiss lakes. "Mine is the power to seize
and crush," she cried. "Once a beautiful boy was stolen from me by
man,- a boy whom I had kissed, but had not kissed to death. He is
again among mankind, and tends the goats on the mountains. He is
always climbing higher and higher, far away from all others, but not
from me. He is mine; I will send for him." And she gave Vertigo the
commission.
It was summer, and the Ice Maiden was melting amidst the green
verdure, when Vertigo swung himself up and down. Vertigo has many
brothers, quite a troop of them, and the Ice Maiden chose the
strongest among them. They exercise their power in different ways, and
everywhere. Some sit on the banisters of steep stairs, others on the
outer rails of lofty towers, or spring like squirrels along the ridges
of the mountains. Others tread the air as a swimmer treads the
water, and lure their victims here and there till they fall into the
deep abyss. Vertigo and the Ice Maiden clutch at human beings, as
the polypus seizes upon all that comes within its reach. And now
Vertigo was to seize Rudy.
"Seize him, indeed," cried Vertigo; "I cannot do it. That
monster of a cat has taught him her tricks. That child of the human
race has a power within him which keeps me at a distance; I cannot
possibly reach the boy when he hangs from the branches of trees,
over the precipice; or I would gladly tickle his feet, and send him
heels over head through the air; but I cannot accomplish it."
"We must accomplish it," said the Ice Maiden; "either you or I
must; and I will- I will!"
"No, no!" sounded through the air, like an echo on the mountain
church bells chime. It was an answer in song, in the melting tones
of a chorus from others of nature's spirits- good and loving
spirits, the daughters of the sunbeam. They who place themselves in
a circle every evening on the mountain peaks; there they spread out
their rose-colored wings, which, as the sun sinks, become more flaming
red, until the lofty Alps seem to burn with fire. Men call this the
Alpine glow. After the sun has set, they disappear within the white
snow on the mountain-tops, and slumber there till sunrise, when they
again come forth. They have great love for flowers, for butterflies,
and for mankind; and from among the latter they had chosen little
Rudy. "You shall not catch him; you shall not seize him!" they sang.
"Greater and stronger than he have I seized!" said the Ice Maiden.
Then the daughters of the sun sang a song of the traveller,
whose cloak had been carried away by the wind. "The wind took the
covering, but not the man; it could even seize upon him, but not
hold him fast. The children of strength are more powerful, more
ethereal, even than we are. They can rise higher than our parent,
the sun. They have the magic words that rule the wind and the waves,
and compel them to serve and obey; and they can, at last, cast off the
heavy, oppressive weight of mortality, and soar upwards." Thus sweetly
sounded the bell-like tones of the chorus.
And each morning the sun's rays shone through the one little
window of the grandfather's house upon the quiet child. The
daughters of the sunbeam kissed him; they wished to thaw, and melt,
and obliterate the ice kiss which the queenly maiden of the glaciers
had given him as he lay in the lap of his dead mother, in the deep
crevasse of ice from which he had been so wonderfully rescued.
II. THE JOURNEY TO THE NEW HOME
Rudy was just eight years old, when his uncle, who lived on the
other side of the mountain, wished to have the boy, as he thought he
might obtain a better education with him, and learn something more.
His grandfather thought the same, so he consented to let him go.
Rudy had many to say farewell to, as well as his grandfather. First,
there was Ajola, the old dog.
"Your father was the postilion, and I was the postilion's dog,"
said Ajola. "We have often travelled the same journey together; I knew
all the dogs and men on this side of the mountain. It is not my
habit to talk much; but now that we have so little time to converse
together, I will say something more than usual. I will relate to you a
story, which I have reflected upon for a long time. I do not
understand it, and very likely you will not, but that is of no
consequence. I have, however, learnt from it that in this world things
are not equally divided, neither for dogs nor for men. All are not
born to lie on the lap and to drink milk: I have never been petted
in this way, but I have seen a little dog seated in the place of a
gentleman or lady, and travelling inside a post-chaise. The lady,
who was his mistress, or of whom he was master, carried a bottle of
milk,
of which the little dog now and then drank; she also offered him
pieces of sugar to crunch. He sniffed at them proudly, but would not
eat one, so she ate them herself. I was running along the dirty road
by the side of the carriage as hungry as a dog could be, chewing the
cud of my own thoughts, which were rather in confusion. But many other
things seemed in confusion also. Why was not I lying on a lap and
travelling in a coach? I could not tell; yet I knew I could not
alter my own condition, either by barking or growling.
This was Ajola's farewell speech, and Rudy threw his arms round
the dog's neck and kissed his cold nose. Then he took the cat in his
arms, but he struggled to get free.
"You are getting too strong for me," he said; "but I will not
use my claws against you. Clamber away over the mountains; it was I
who taught you to climb. Do not fancy you are going to fall, and you
will be quite safe." Then the cat jumped down and ran away; he did not
wish Rudy to see that there were tears in his eyes.
